Before The Prophecy
by LisaT
Summary: Part 6: Henry to the rescue ... This is the story of Mary's first idyllic years at the French court, long before Nostradamus, when she and Francis were children and there was no shadow over their future... Kid-Frary, Matherine, Cathry and the possibility of teeth and gut rotting fluff. R&R!
1. 1 1548

I can't claim the credit for this idea. It came while I was lurking in the _Reign_ fan forum and someone said something about wanting to see flashbacks to Mary's initial three years at court before being sent to the convent. If it's you, please shout so I can attribute accordingly!

Otherwise, enjoy and please don't forget to let me know what you think. Any ideas to further expand this would also be good. I don't know if I will—I've got five parts planned—but if there's interest the potential is there.

* * *

One

* * *

'It's time to meet your bride, my son,' Francis's mother said as she finished settling his stiffly embroidered collar so that it didn't prick him under the chin. Only Mother knew he hated that. Her silk gown whispered as she rose—how he loved that sound!—and she stood smiling with the special smile she kept just for him. 'Are you ready?'

He nodded. She offered her hand and he took it as he'd been taught to do, in courtly fashion. In truth he was just a little afraid—what if Queen Mary didn't like him? She was almost a whole year older than he was; what if she thought he was just a baby?—but the sight of his mother's twinkling eyes reassured him. His mother had the prettiest eyes of _anyone_. Bash disputed that but Francis wasn't having it; Bash's mother was like the moon—lovely and untouchable, a remote figure in black and white. _She_ never smiled like Francis's mother did, or pulled Bash into a hug, or soothed him when he was sick with a touch of her cool hands.

Although that didn't count, Francis thought, wanting to be fair. Bash was _never_ sick. Francis knew that was why Papa preferred Bash; he liked to roughhouse with Bash until Bash yelled for mercy while Francis he handled with the same delicacy he showed the Queen's favourite Venetian goblets.

Francis's grip tightened on his mother's fingers.

What if Mary liked Bash better too? Bash was bigger and older and stronger and cleverer than Francis was. The only thing wrong with him was the fact that he was a bastard. Francis wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he did know—absurd as it seemed—that one day _he_ would be King of France and not Bash. Which was why it was to _him_ that the Queen of Scotland had come.

The thought gave him confidence. He lifted his pointed chin—all the better to escape that pesky pearl beading—and looked up at his mother.

'Where is she?' He was proud he sounded steady, like a proper grown-up.

'She's with her mother in the throne room.' They were walking, leaving the safety of the nursery, and Francis's insides were going funny. To distract himself, he tried another question.

'Marie de Guise?'

His mother smiled her Queen-smile. 'Indeed. You did listen!'

'I always listen,' he assured her solemnly. 'If you listen you don't get things wrong.'

'Francis.' His mother stopped and Francis, perforce, did likewise. 'You must not be afraid. You must not worry about getting it wrong. _You_ are the Dauphin of France, heir to one of the powerful countries in the world. Mary might be a Queen, but she's had to run away because the English want to hurt her. Remember, I explained? Queen Mary needs _you_ more than you need _her_.'

'That won't matter if she doesn't like me.' _Like Papa doesn't like you,_ Francis thought but did not say.

'She _will_ like you,' his mother insisted. 'How could she not? Now come along.'

There was no time to protest. The Queen was moving forward at a brisk pace that he knew meant business and before he was quite ready she had released his hand and was ushering him forward into the throne room.

'And here they are at last!' Papa boomed, almost running to meet them, a grin stretching from ear to ear. He offered his arm, leaning in to murmur, 'What kept you, Catherine?'

'We just needed a moment.' Mother sounded stiff, her grip too tight on Papa's arm. Francis could see how Papa's sleeve rippled under her fingers. He knew why too; Bash's mother Diane stood by Papa's throne, looking splendid in her satin and flashing jewels.

'Excellent, excellent.' Papa didn't seem to be listening, but there was nothing new in that. 'Francis, come here. Your Grace, this is my son Francis, your future husband.'

A poke between the shoulder blades told Francis he should look up from his study of the entwined H and C (Bash insisted it was H and D, but for once he was wrong, he must be) embedded in the floor. His heart was beating so hard and fast he feared he might be sick and he gulped in an effort to control it. Papa might be angry if he didn't look up, but he'd be even angrier if Francis puked all over the Queen of Scotland and her mother.

' _Bonjour, Francis_ ,' a soft sweet voice said in an accent he'd never heard, and curiosity did the trick. He glanced up into a pair of laughing hazel eyes and ... That was it. All his fears vanished even before the owner of those hazel eyes held out her hand and said, ' _Je suis Marie_.'

Francis moved to take it like one in a dream. 'W-welcome to France,' he stuttered, and immediately wished the floor would open and swallow him.

But Mary was smiling and he saw she was missing a tooth. For some reason that made him feel better.

'I'm so happy to arrive! The voyage was so _scary_ , the waves were this high'—she stood on tippy-toes to stretch her hand as high as she could reach, her eyes going very wide and round. 'Everyone thought we would _die_.'

'But you didn't,' Francis said slowly, starting to smile himself. 'You're _here_.'

She clasped his hand tighter and moved closer. She was a little taller than he was. Light streamed through the diamond-glass panes, trapping a gleam of red-gold amongst the depths of her soft brown hair. She was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen ... _Almost_ , he thought loyally, _as pretty as Mother_.

'Come on,' he said, pulling Mary towards his mother. 'Come to meet the Queen my lady.'

Mary's high white brow crinkled.

'But I have.' She turned to point unselfconsciously at Diane, who had remained by the King's throne. Francis's heart plummeted as the desultory chat between his parents and Mary's mother just _stopped_ , leaving an awful silence.

Mary did not seem to notice. She was still watching Diane.

'I want to look like that when I grow up,' she announced, her clear voice filling the suddenly quiet throne room. 'That is how a Queen should look.'

'I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear,' Francis's mother said, moving to stand before them. Unlike Diane, she was not tall and slim; her gown was a dull green next to Diane's striking black and white, and now that she wasn't smiling Francis thought she looked like he felt when he was ill. 'I am Catherine de Medici, Queen of France.'

'But—' Mary frowned over her shoulder at Diane and Francis pressed her fingers urgently, eager to prevent her from making things worse.

'Ssh.' To emphasise his point, he made his mother a bow—rather clumsily, since Mary's hand was still clasped in his. ' _Madame ma mère_ , may I present Her Grace the Queen of Scotland?'

Mary seemed to recover herself. She did not curtsy—or not _properly_ , Francis thought anxiously. Her small head was held high and she inclined it with only the merest of nods.

'I am honoured to meet the Queen of France.'

'Likewise, my dear. Likewise.' Francis flinched at his mother's tone. She sounded so ... brittle. 'You will be a delightful addition to our nursery, I am sure.'

Mary's lovely eyes went wide. 'Am I not to have my own household?'

'Perhaps one day.' His mother's smile was as brittle as her voice.

'But I'm the Queen of Scotland!'

'And _I_ am the Queen of France—and you are _in_ France, my dear. Not only that, you are a child with much to learn. So ... No, you will not have your own household. You will share with Francis and my daughter Elisabeth.'

Mary pouted and Francis gave a warning jab with his elbow when his mother's eyes narrowed. Luckily, his bride took the hint and produced a dazzling smile.

'My mother says you're to be my mother now, so I must do as you say, no?'

'Indeed. Welcome to France, _daughter_.' The Queen returned to her husband's side, brushing past Diane as though the other woman did not exist, and Francis let out the breath he didn't realise he was holding with a _whoosh_.

'She doesn't like me.' Mary's shoulders had slumped and tears were gathering. 'Why doesn't she like me?'

'Of course she likes you,' Francis told her stoutly, wrapping his arms around her. She might be taller than he was but she was thin, even thinner than little Elisabeth. 'She loves me and she'll love you because I do.'

Mary sniffled, raising sad hazel pools to his. 'Do you really? Already?'

'I will love you until I die,' Francis swore, feeling very grown up.

'I will love you too,' Mary promised, still sniffling. She wiped at her tears with the back of her hand but it wasn't enough, they were still flowing.

'Don't cry,' Francis begged, feeling as ineffectual as he did when Elisabeth sobbed incomprehensibly. 'Please. We're gonna get married someday. We should be _happy_.'

'That's _ages_ away. I have to stay here _now_. Your mother doesn't like me. I want to stay with my mother. I want to go _home_.'

There was nothing Francis could say to that. All he could do was press her hand and whisper of all the games the three of them would find to play together, whisper of how much fun his mother was in the nursery, how she really was the best mother in the world—

And then he glanced up and met his mother's eyes. She was watching them with an expression he did not understand; it frightened him a little. He made himself smile, his tummy flipping anxiously until she returned it. It was not her special smile, but it was good enough. She was his mother, she loved him. He'd find a way to make her love Mary too.


	2. Fontainebleau, 1548

Two

* * *

It was December and the run-up to Mary's first Christmas in France. Instead of joining the other children in a glorious game of hide-and-seek through the lovely chateau of Fontainebleau, the little Queen of Scotland had sought out a deserted window seat and curled there to cry.

On the face of it there was no reason for tears.

Christmas at Fontainebleau was magical. There were fireworks every night and the three royal children often crept out of bed to watch, huddled together for warmth. Candles glowed and winked, reflecting off Queen Catherine's lovely Italian glass decorations. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchens and the great halls were rich with the scent of resinous firs and the sharper, sweeter tang of oranges imported from the warm south. Outside snow lay thickly on the ground and the famous fountains were still, their tinkling beauty imprisoned in ice.

Mary loved the snow. She loved the days when it came down in whirling, dizzying storms. Bash and Francis growled and complained at being trapped inside and little Elisabeth seemed to shrink, but Mary gloried in it. She would stand in the threshold of a sheltered doorway with her eyes closed, her hands outstretched to feel the feather touch of falling flakes and her ears attuned to the whistling of the wind around the turret tops. For those few moments she could believe herself back in the rugged wildness of her native Scotland and be completely and utterly content.

At first her excursions were solitary, moments snatched when everyone else was busy elsewhere. Then Bash discovered them and tried to join her. Mary protested. The bickering continued until they returned to the nursery, and by that point Francis had got involved. Somewhere along the line Bash ended up daring Francis to go outside with Mary later that night. Mary had tried to stop it, but Francis was so insulted by the implication that he was too fragile to experience the force of the cold that he insisted on carrying out his half-brother's dare. The result was a severe illness that nearly killed the Dauphin, the temporary banishment of Bash from the nursery, and the sharpest scolding of Mary's pampered young life. Needless to add, she was also barred from going outside alone again and they'd all been warned that the Queen would hear of any attempts to overturn those restrictions.

Not even Mary dared try after that. The truth was, she was a little afraid of Queen Catherine. The older woman was nearly impossible to please and Mary had yet to win a genuine smile from her. Being contrary by nature, that made her all the more determined and she worked harder with the Queen—at Italian, at needlework, at being a good daughter—than she'd ever worked at anything. Thus far it had availed her nothing and Mary, who missed her home and mother more than she'd confessed to anyone, even Francis, was left with a sick little ache that refused to lift.

The ache was worse tonight. Her mother had forgotten her, Mary was sure of it. Perhaps Bash was right when he said he'd overheard someone say that Marie de Guise was ashamed of her child, the child that should have been a boy. Perhaps that was the real reason for Mary being sent to France, and not England at all—

'Mary!'

The child jumped, already cringing at the harsh note in the Queen's voice. She tried to scramble to her feet but her skirts were wrapped tightly around her legs, holding her still. For once the imperious young Queen of Scots could only raise imploring eyes to her future mother-in-law's face and say, 'Madame—'

Queen Catherine looked very stern. 'Have you been here the whole time?Without telling anyone? The whole castle has been in an uproar, looking for you!'

'But we were playing hide and seek!'

' _Hours_ ago,' the Queen said grimly. 'Francis has coughed himself sick for worry of you, and Elisabeth not much better. How could you be so selfish, especially when—' She broke off and Mary's head drooped. It wasn't hard to imagine that Catherine wanted to finish with _especially when it's your fault Francis got ill in the first place._ His nurse had told her so often enough.

'I'm sorry,' Mary whispered. Another wriggle and her legs were sufficiently free that she was able to draw her knees to her chest and hug them close.

'You're not a baby any longer and you are already a Queen,' Catherine was saying. 'This foolish behaviour must _stop_. You must— _oh_...'

The sudden change in tone made Mary glance up. The Queen had stretched out one hand to brace herself against the tapestry covered walls; the other rested on her tummy and she looked strange, even in the dim light of the torches Mary could see she'd gone a funny grey-green.

Another child might have stayed still and hoped to be left in peace, but not Mary, Queen of Scots. She fished out her cushion from beneath her and slid it across the generous expanse of the window seat.

'Madame?' she prompted. Catherine's eyes were closed, lines forming in her forehead. 'Madame, are you sick?'

'No.' Mary was relieved when Catherine let out a slow breath and downright surprised when the older woman made a little quirk of the lips that was nearly— _nearly!_ —a smile. 'No, child. I'm not sick, just ... I—I believe I will sit.' She did so, rather quickly.

Mary peered at her, no longer afraid. It was hard to be scared of anyone who looked as wobbly as the Queen did right now.

'Bash says you're going to have a baby,' she ventured. Bash was the main source of news and gossip for the royal children and he hadn't failed them yet.

The Queen made a dismissive sound. 'That boy says entirely too much.' She sighed, one hand going to her wipe her brow. The jewels on her fingers winked in the light.

Mary sat up. 'Is it true?'

'H'mm. In February.'

'That's only two months away.' Mary turned the thought around in her mind. A baby ... another child in the nursery. She gave a gummy smile, showing a new gap where she'd lost a tooth the day before. 'Elisabeth will be so cross. She likes getting her way because she's the littlest.'

'Does she?'

Mary leaned forward. 'Especially with Papa Henry.' She paused before adding wistfully, 'Papa Henry likes little girls.'

'He does. Big ones too,' the Queen supplemented. Mary thought she understood—Bash again—but had learned enough of the ways of the French court in the months since her arrival to make no comment.

Instead she sighed. It hitched on the sob that was still very near the surface and Catherine looked at her. Mary tried to control it—Catherine did not approve of queens who cried—but she couldn't help it. A second sob escaped.

'Do—do _you_ like little girls?' Tears streamed down her face in great fat globs of sadness.

'I'm the Queen of France,' Catherine said, her tone gentler than Mary had ever heard it. 'It doesn't matter what I like.'

'You want boys!'

' _France_ wants boys,' the Queen corrected. 'France isn't Scotland, Mary. A girl—no matter how clever or pretty or brave—cannot rule here.'

'Is that the only reason?'

'Of course.' To Mary's amazement, Catherine reached across to brush away a tear with a thumb. 'Of course it is. I love all my children—'

'You love Francis more,' Mary dared, eyeing the Queen through her lashes. 'Because he's a _boy_.'

At last she'd succeeded in winning a genuine smile from Catherine—and all at once Mary understood why Francis insisted his mother was the prettiest person ever. That smile changed her utterly.

'Oh, Mary. You should understand; you love him too, do you not? I don't love him especially because he's a boy or the heir, it's because he's _Francis_. My sweet golden child.'

Mary hid her face in her skirts. 'It's not true, what you said. About being different in Scotland. My mother isn't like you, she wishes I was a boy. I _disappointed_ her.'

'Then your mother is a fool,' Catherine said, so crisply that Mary raised startled eyes to stare. 'It is true, we live in a world that prefers men to women—but women can rule as well as men, and Marie de Guise should know it. Look at her, ruling Scotland now in your name. Fifty years ago there was Queen Isabella in Spain. Thirty years ago the Emperor's aunt Margaret ruled the Netherlands. If King Edward dies in England, he has only sisters to follow him: your cousins Mary and Elizabeth.'

'Elizabeth's a bastard,' Mary pointed out and the Queen smiled, but it was not the radiant smile of earlier.

'So they say. They also call Mary bastard, so who knows? Either way, they have only women to succeed to King Henry's throne after Edward: Mary, Elizabeth, those Grey girls—or you, _ma petite reine.'_

Mary's eyes were on stalks. ' _Me_?'

'You.' Catherine was still crisp. 'You too are descended from Henry VII. So instead of lamenting your sex your mother would be better employed educating you in a manner befitting your rank—and since she has placed you in our hands _we_ shall do so. You are to join Francis for lessons apart from the other children; you will both be rulers some day.'

'Just me and Francis?' Mary couldn't believe her ears—or her luck. Almost above everything else she adored spending time with just Francis, but Bash and Elisabeth always wanted to tag along. Mary loved the other two but it wasn't the same.

'Just you. You'll start after Christmas once we're sure Francis is quite himself again.'

She clapped her hands. 'Thank you, Madame! _Thank_ you! This is the greatest birthday present!'

Catherine's eyebrows went up. 'Ah. Ah, yes. Your birthday. You had a party, didn't you?'

Mary nodded, remembering. That party was was the best party she'd ever had— _Of course it was_ , Bash had pointed out. _French parties are_ always _the best_ —but happiness quickly faded.

'Didn't you enjoy it?' the Queen asked, sounding ridiculously like Elisabeth in a huffy mood.

'I _loved_ it,' Mary hastened to assure her, adding sadly: ' _Ma mere_ forgot. She sent ... nothing. _Nothing_ , Madame.' She twisted the thin linen of her sleeves before blurting, 'I miss her, Madame. Even if she's disappointed because I'm a girl. I miss _home_ , I miss the mountains and—and _everything_.'

'I know, _petite_. The first year is the hardest.' Once again Catherine was gentle and Mary looked up into the older woman's face. 'Everything is different. At least you speak good French, my child. I ... had only a little. Every morning I woke and had to force myself to think in French instead of Italian. I made my ladies do it too. We had to, you see. France did not want an Italian girl so I had to become as French as possible ... as fast as possible.'

Mary's lower lip was trembling. 'Does it ever stop hurting _here_?' She pressed into her stomacher.

The Queen sighed. 'Eventually. Part of you will always miss your home. But when you have people to love ... where they are matters more than where you are. So long as you are with them ... you're home.'

'Like me and Francis.' Mary slid off her window seat and shook her skirts back into place. She folded her hands properly at her waist. 'I want to go him now.'

'Very well.' Mary could no longer see the Queen's features; she was in shadow. She sounded her familiar stern self once more. 'Only if he is well enough.'

'Yes, Madame.' Mary nodded and gave the funny little bob-that-wasn't-quite-a-curtsy she'd made her own at the French court. She _was_ Queen of Scotland after all.

She walked sedately until she was well out of Catherine's sight before picking up her skirts and running as fast as she could for the nursery, to Francis. The Queen was right; it was not the place that mattered but the people, and as long as she was with Francis—who adored her and who she adored in return—she would always be at home.

* * *

 _TBC_

 _There's another three bits to go but I'm trying to decide whether to post them individually or in groups, as here. I suppose it depends on the feedback!_


	3. 3 Amboise, 1550

_Here's the next bit! A bit everything, I hope—some Cathry, a little Frary, some fluff, some humour, some drama ... That's the plan anyway, so please let me know if it works. And yes, Catherine's pregnant again. At this point she spends more time pregnant than not-pregnant but if you're going to have ten children in pretty much as many years there's no help for it! I've also taken a liberty with the timing of Louis's death; he's already dead here whereas in fact he didn't die until late 1550._

* * *

 **Amboise, 1550**

* * *

Henry stalked through the galleries of his favourite chateau, the red-and-gold of his cape swinging wide. Various courtiers attempted to fall in behind them, but he dismissed them with a scowl and a wave; a courtesy visit to his wife did not require half the court in attendance.

There was _one_ person who was unimpressed with either the scowl or the wave and that was the young Queen of Scots, presently pelting down the gallery towards Catherine's rooms and yelling for 'Madame'.

Henry's scowl deepened. 'Mary!'

She skidded to a stop so abruptly that only his hand on her arm prevented her from going headlong; not that the little madam was grateful, she was already struggling to free herself from his grasp.

He tightened it and drew her closer to his side with a shake. 'What the hell's going on? You know perfectly well the Scots ambassador is here today; do you _want_ him to see his Queen looking like a beggar-maid?'

Mary threw her head back and gave scowl for scowl.

'Who cares about that stupid old ambassador when—Papa Henry, _please_ let go!'

He was about to give the silly child another shake when his wife said, 'Yes, Henry, perhaps you _should_ let her go.' Henry jumped and turned to look at her; for a woman who liked to clip around in high heels she could be disconcertingly silent. Her lips twitched as if she knew what he was thinking. 'If it's the ambassador you're worried about I doubt he'd be too happy to see you treating his Queen with so little respect and there's a treaty to ratify, remember.' She stood back against the double doors with a single expansive gesture. ' _In_. Both of you.'

Henry complied, jerking Mary along with him. His wife closed her doors with a definite clunk and turned to them with the glare he'd seen directed at ladies-in-waiting and serving girls, but never himself. He released Mary and the child grabbed at Catherine's arm.

'Please, Madame, you've got to help. We were outside, in the trees, and Francis—'

' _Francis_?' Catherine interrupted, her usually pale skin turning grey. Henry swallowed a curse and moved to steady her with his hands on her shoulders, directing a glare of his own towards his future daughter-in-law. Mary wasn't stupid, she knew perfectly well the Queen was expecting another child. A child who was more important than ever in the aftermath of Baby Louis's recent death.

Mary seemed to realise it herself. All her fire died, leaving her looking very small and scared. 'He—he...'

'Out with it!' Catherine snapped. 'Did he fall? Is he hurt? How many times have I told you—'

'Catherine, stop.' Henry moved his hands to her upper arms and squeezed; he could feel the tension radiating through her body. 'I'll go with Mary—'

'He's stuck!' Mary blurted and Henry's jaw dropped.

' _Stuck_?'

'Up the tree. He's never gone that far before but he just kept going and going and we couldn't get him to come back!'

Henry gritted his teeth. 'I'm going to kill Bash!'

'It wasn't his fault!' Mary protested shrilly. 'It wasn't anybody's, we've all been up and down that tree heaps of times and Francis never got stuck before!'

'Where were the guards?' Catherine demanded, breaking away from Henry's hold to lift her favourite cloak and whirling it around her shoulders so quickly that he had to grab at his cap to prevent it from drifting off. 'They should have been there. If harm comes to Francis—'

'He sent them away! He told them he'd have them thrown in the dungeon if they didn't obey!'

Pride surged through the King. Francis had always seemed such a fragile little boy, content to hide behind his mother's skirts—or his future wife's. It did his heart good to know the boy was capable of such defiance; perhaps he wasn't such a weakling after all. Some of the fear began to drain out of him. He remembered getting into a similar predicament at Francis's age, but no-one had come to _his_ rescue and he'd eventually got down in one piece. Since Francis had managed to get up that tree it'd do him no end of good to get down it unaided. A useful lesson on kingship too, his father reflected.

Not that there was any point in saying so. Catherine wouldn't agree, she was already sweeping down the gallery, a ship in full sail indeed, scattering courtiers and servants in her wake. Only Mary kept pace beside her, talking hard the whole time. Henry had to lengthen his strides to catch up, shaking his head as he realised that several of his assumptions about his family were seriously misguided. One being that Francis was a milksop and the other, that Catherine hated Mary ...

For she quite clearly didn't. The pair had come to a stop in front of him and Catherine's hand was on Mary's cheek, a gesture he'd seen her use many times towards their own children and one he'd experienced himself, back in the early days when they were two frightened children together. The memory brought a lump to his throat.

'Mary should go back to the nursery,' he said gruffly as he joined them. 'Not much good she can do now.'

'I'm coming,' Mary insisted, clutching at Catherine's elbow, her hazel eyes proclaiming ferocious intent. 'This is _Francis_. You can't stop me, I'll—I'll climb down the balcony if I have to—'

'Of course you're coming,' Catherine interrupted, shooting Henry a dark look. 'We need you to show us where to go.'

Henry rolled his eyes when they swept off once again. They were almost of a height, he observed. Mary was going to be tall—perhaps very tall—and Catherine was anything but, even in her beloved heels. Despite that disparity there was something similar in the way they moved, in the way they held themselves...

He barked a half-laugh and followed.

 _Francis, my boy, you're_ definitely _gonna have to develop some backbone. Otherwise those women will rule you all your days._

* * *

For once curiosity proved a stronger incentive than fear and a significant proportion of the court was camped around a particular tree in the grounds of Amboise. Bash was seated on a lower branch, his hands clinging to it, whilst at the bottom clustered the lily-fair Elisabeth with small Claude beside her, watching avidly. Henry took a moment to wonder what she was doing with others—she wasn't much past her third birthday—but even as he thought it he knew it was futile. Young she might be, but little Princess Claude gave every promise of being her mother's daughter.

Catherine ignored their audience with superb disdain.

'Henry.' She indicated the branches nearest them; high, high above the King could spy a pair of dangling legs.

Some of his complacency evaporated and he moved closer to his wife to whisper, 'You expect _me_ to go up? Why can't the—'

'He's your _son_ , Henry!' Her eyes glinted like sunlight on steel. ' _Our_ son. If it was Bash you'd be up there already.'

'That's ridiculous, this child is turning you soft in the head—'

'I'd go up there if I could, but I don't think I'm dressed for it—'

' _Dressed_ for it?' Stupefied outrage turned him breathless. She was five months pregnant. She was insane. Then he caught the look in her eye and realised she was prodding him, provoking him deliberately as only she could.

Mary was standing between them, looking hopefully from one to the other. Now she broke away, her cheeks scarlet with annoyance.

'You're wasting time. If you won't help him, I'm going!'

She'd just put her hand in Bash's to allow Henry's illegitimate son to pull her up beside him when a series of expostulations and spluttering made everyone pause. It was Marie de Guise's ambassador, a portly fellow who looked to be the verge of immediate explosion.

'Your _Majesties!_ You cannot intend to let the Queen of Scotland go after your son!'

'She's already been up there,' Henry barked, hands going to his hips. 'Look at her, she looks as if she's been living in trees.'

'She has. We all have, this spring,' Bash piped up. Catherine sent him an evil look and for once Henry couldn't blame her; the boy's intervention was anything but opportune.

'Your Excellency, there's no need for the Queen of Scotland to go anywhere,' Catherine said, her tone so icy that even Henry shivered. Various courtiers shifted back, as though to escape the frigid blast. 'The King will go after our son, as is his _duty_. Right, Henry?'

Henry managed a rictus smile. 'Right, Madame.'

Catherine looked at him for a moment before gesturing. 'Have at it then, my lord. Children, come here.'

They obeyed instantly. Even Mary, even Bash, even wilful little Claude. Henry's shoulders slumped and he moved to the base of the tree.

'It's really easy, Father,' Bash volunteered. 'All you do is jump from the stump to that branch and then—'

Now it was Henry who sent the boy a filthy look.

'Thanks, but I'm not yet so decrepit I've forgotten how to climb a tree, especially _this_ tree. Watch and learn, my son. Watch and learn.' He allowed his cape to drop to the ground and vaulted lightly onto Bash's branch. It creaked warningly and he refrained from sending his oldest son a smirk until he was safely ensconced on a stronger branch closer to the tree's stout heart. 'You see?'

'Papa? Papa, is that you?' a shaky voice floated down. 'Papa, I've been waiting forever and this branch keeps—'

'Francis—' Henry heard Catherine begin while Mary shrieked, 'Francis, _don't move_!'

'Henry, hurry. Please. For the love of God, _hurry_!'

The urgency in Catherine's voice jolted through Henry's nerves, awakening him at last to the fix they were in. The tree had grown in the twenty-odd years since climbing it himself, but the upper branches where Francis was were thin and flimsy. Francis was slightly built but if he panicked—if he panicked as much Henry was starting to inwardly panic–they could have another tragedy.

He began to climb, moving lightly and surely from branch to branch, forcing everything from his mind but the need to get his son and heir returned safely to the ground. He couldn't handle losing another child so soon after Louis and neither could Catherine. Especially Catherine, they'd waited so long to have a child at all and Francis ... He set his jaw and went at it, and before very long he wasn't much more than a metre from the Dauphin.

And Henry's heart sank, not simply to his boots but all the way down to the base of the tree and below it into the very roots in the soil beneath.

Francis could not have got down alone. In fact, Francis was braver than Henry had given him credit for. He'd straddled the branch and was positioned rather closer to the leafy end than was either wise or safe, and Henry could see how the branch was bowing and protesting under the small boy's weight. At least he'd had the wit to stay still.

The King's mouth went dry. He couldn't risk putting a foot on that branch, couldn't risk stressing it further, or they might both be sent hurtling towards death or serious injury below.

He wiped his mouth and crouched down, bracing himself against the trunk. 'Francis. Son, can you hear me?'

'Papa.' Francis's blue eyes were nearly black with fear; sweat had turned the golden curls into a murky brown. 'Papa, I can't—I can't move.'

'You have to, son.' Henry hoped his own voice was calm enough, steady enough, to reassure the frightened child. Now more than ever he regretted spending so little time with Francis. If it was Bash in this situation he'd know exactly what to say and do.

'Tell him to lie forward,' someone murmured in Henry's ear and he jerked, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. It was Bash, his eyes glowing particularly green in the light that dappled through the leaves. 'He has to spread his weight.' He pointed downwards. 'I'm going to tell Catherine—'

'Wait.' Henry had to take a breath. 'Don't frighten her, tell her to send some girls for something—something soft, just in case—'

Bash grinned, showing his missing front tooth. He was a little ghost from Henry's past, an echo of his own young self in the years before Spain. 'She's already on it, Father.'

'Good.' Henry exhaled slowly; he dismissed Bash with a gesture. He couldn't be distracted.

'Now, Francis,' he began gently, 'you don't need to be afraid. Mother's making us a nice soft bed below, if the worst happens just let yourself fall—'

'Like—like off a horse? Like you sh—showed me?'

Gratitude gushed through Henry. He and Francis had happened to spend an afternoon together not so very long ago. Their first—but it might be enough.

He swallowed the emotion. 'Exactly like that, my son. Go limp. Trust your mother and Mary to have made it safe.'

Francis smiled and Henry's breath caught. His son looked like a tired and bedraggled angel. No wonder Catherine adored him. 'If Mother and Mary have made it safe—' He shrugged his small shoulders and began to inch down the branch.

It groaned.

'Lie forward, Francis,' Henry warned, remembering Bash's advice. 'Spread your weight gently. And move ... as softly as you can.'

Francis obeyed, every movement placed with delicacy, while Henry watched with his heart in his mouth. Even nature seemed to realise the situation's gravity; the breeze had dropped, leaving the air so still that Henry's own breath was the loudest sound he heard.

It seemed like an eternity before Francis whispered, 'Papa—' and Henry realised the boy was close enough to touch. He yanked him forward into his arms and the branch snapped, falling to the ground below to the accompaniment of screams.

He grimaced and cleared his throat. 'I hope you're ready to grovel.'

'Mother will understand,' Francis said confidently. Now that he was safe by his father's side he seemed almost unaffected by his ordeal ... _Almost_. Henry could feel how he shook.

 _He's_ definitely _no milksop,_ he decided. He drew a breath that was shakier than he liked.

'Can you climb down yourself?'

Francis looked as insulted as any self-respecting young boy would be. ''Course.' He grinned. 'Bet I'm faster than you—' and he suited the action to the word, half sliding down the tree trunk in his eagerness to reach the ground. Henry could hear the shouts and cheers when he did so and took a moment for himself, a moment where he could admit he'd been scared half to death.

Then he too descended to rejoin his family. All there, all safe. Catherine, small and staunch, with one arm around Mary and the other around Francis. Bash stood to Francis's other side with Elisabeth holding his hand and Claude holding hers. The courtiers had gone.

Henry grinned. 'Where'd they go?'

'I told them to leave,' Catherine said briefly, while Claude bellowed ' _Go!_ ' with unprincesslike relish and Elisabeth tried to quieten her.

Henry's grin widened.

'Good. Who needs 'em, eh?'

'We do. France does.' Catherine stopped. 'But not just now.'

Exhilaration bubbled through Henry. He could count on one hand the times he'd felt like this ... and never before with Catherine. Never before near her ... except perhaps when Francis was born.

He held out his arm. ' _Madame ma reine?_ '

She looked at him before accepting. ' _Monseigneur_.'

They walked quietly, the children surging ahead, all talking excitedly.

'I'd better warn the governesses,' Catherine was saying. 'They'll need baths and hot milk, otherwise they'll never sleep—'

'Catherine—'

She looked up at him and smiled. 'Henry, don't.' Her eyes were sad.

'How did you—'

'I know you.' She picked up her pace. 'It's always the same.' She paused to lean down to carefully pick a few leaves, sniffing them thoughtfully as she rose.

'What are they?' he asked, suddenly at a loss. They'd been married more than fifteen years, they shared four children, and yet ... Sometimes he felt the woman she'd become was more of a stranger than the Italian girl he'd married sight unseen almost a lifetime ago.

'Herbs. For potions.' She paused. 'The new physician, Nostradamus ... He's teaching me.'

Henry frowned. 'Is it safe?'

'Of course. I wouldn't risk our child and neither would he. He's a good man, Henry.'

He grunted, aware of an odd surge of ... jealousy? He squashed it down. He had no right to it. He eyed his wife out of the corner of his eye as they continued back to the chateau and their separate lives. She was walking in her usual manner, shoulders back, head erect, spine straight ... All those years on horseback had paid off, her posture was that of a Queen. She loved France ... and her children ... and him ... with an intensity that had once scared him; she would, he felt, do anything, justify anything, in the name of that holy trinity of her heart.

Once it had scared him. Now part of him was sorry—half-shamed and sorry—that he could not deserve it, that Diane had already claimed him so completely that there was nothing left for Catherine but the crown she wore and the children she bore.

The children ... A burden he hadn't realised he carried slipped from him. Always at the back of his mind was the fear that if he died young France would defenceless, once again at the mercy of Spain or England while his sons grew to manhood. Now he knew it would not be.

Not while Catherine de Medici lived.

* * *

 _There you have it! My first attempt at Cathry. I'm sorry I couldn't go all out for the fluff, but ... those annoying historian tendencies again. Besides, I quite like bittersweetness of it and I hope that carries through._

TBC...


	4. October, 1551

_Thank you so much to_ _ **WolfOfTheBeyond, demedicigirl, CallmeCordelia1, sylvia629, FaerieBreath**_ _and_ _ **Katie**_ _for their reviews! Keep 'em coming because (as ever in fandom) your enthusiasm kindles mine and result in more fic._

* * *

 **October, 1551**

* * *

'I'll seek,' Mary announced.

She usually did—she or Bash divided that honour between them. Francis and Elisabeth followed Mary's lead and the Queen of Scots' recently-arrived ladies-in-waiting were hardly likely to argue.

'It's always you,' Claude complained. 'Why can't _I_ have a go?'

'You're too little,' Francis said in the superior manner he'd picked up from his fiancée. Claude stuck her tongue out at him.

'This isn't just a game,' the Princess Elisabeth reminded them. 'It's to help Mary's Marys find their way around.'

Bash jumped down from his perch on the window ledge. 'We should do something about that. So many Marys, it's mad. And confusing.'

Mary Beaton and Mary Seton exchanged glances.

'Marie de Guise always used our surnames,' Mary Seton said. 'I thought we'd do that here.'

'That'd be _horrid_ ,' Claude said, plucking at the embroidered rosettes on her gown. She cocked her red head to study them. 'Haven't you any other names?'

A pause.

'Mine's Lola,' said Mary Seton after a moment's thought. 'And Beaton's always liked the name Greer—you have, don't lie!' as Mary Beaton's fair complexion turned rosy. 'That's what you called yourself when we played at home.'

'What about you two?' Queen Mary asked, turning to look at Mary Fleming and Mary Livingstone. 'I'm sick of jumping every time someone shouts "Mary"—especially when it's usually for _her_!' She pointed at Mary Fleming, by the far the most mischievous member of the quartette, and that young lady grinned.

'I'll be Kenna,' she announced after a moment's thought. 'Livingstone?'

Mary Livingstone quailed. She was easily quietest and shyest child in the nursery—even more so than gentle Elisabeth.

'You—you decide.'

'That's silly,' Claude said, coming to sit beside the older girl. 'It's _your_ name.'

'Isn't there one you've always liked? One you've read, perhaps?' Elisabeth suggested.

'What about "Aylee"?' That was Mary Beaton—Greer.

Mary Livingstone looked like rabbit caught in a snare; the horrified focus of the collective nursery's attention. She nodded jerkily. 'That–that'll do.'

Queen Mary beamed. 'Now we all have our _own_ names.'

'Can we get back to the game now?' Claude demanded, jumping up with a toss of her unruly curls. 'Can I seek, can I?'

'You can help me hide,' Elisabeth said, exchanging a glance with Francis and Mary. 'You know all the best places.'

'Francis is staying with me,' Mary told the rest, her finger hooking in the trim of Francis's velvet tunic. They grinned at each other in perfect understanding. 'We'll seek _together_.'

As Dauphin, it fell to Francis to get the game going.

'So what are you waiting for? A hundred, ninety-nine... You'd better move, Aylee, 'cos we'll be coming whether you're ready or not—'

The other children took the hint and left in a flurry of squeals and scraped floors and swishing fabric, leaving the Dauphin and the young Queen of Scots alone.

Francis took Mary's hands. 'Let's count.'

'We'd better close our eyes,' she whispered. 'Just in case.'

They began their countdown, blissfully unaware that the seekers were themselves the sought.

* * *

Queen Catherine entered the nursery to find it deserted apart from a a dozing wet-nurse and her youngest, the new baby Charles.

'Madeleine, where are the children?'

The demand was sharper than she'd intended and the wet-nurse jerked to awareness, her ruddy cheeks paling at sight of the Queen.

'Madame, I—I—'

Catherine silenced her with a wave, momentarily weary of the furtive suspicion and fear that seemed to follow her wherever she went; pressing Madeleine further would be a waste of time.

'Never mind,' she said quietly. 'It's a lovely day; they must have gone out. I shall wait for them here.'

Madeleine gulped and swallowed until the Queen began to wonder if the other woman was going to pass out. She wasn't _that_ frightening, was she? She dismissed the petrified wet-nurse with a swift gesture and sank into the vacant chair beside the cradle, admiring its beauty and workmanship as she always did. The vaulted roof, echoing France's finest cathedrals ... the gold ... the intricate carving and painted decoration that proclaimed that this cradle was made for an _enfant de France_ and none other.

Little Charles started to grizzle and Catherine leaned over, a finger going to stroke her baby's cheek. The grizzling morphed into a wail and she bit her lip, leaning over to lift him. He was probably hungry and she couldn't feed him; after weeks of painful binding her own milk had finally dried up, leaving her unfit to mother her own child in this most fundamental of ways.

At least today she was dressed for comfort rather than show, she thought as she held the baby close. Her gown was beautifully made with delicate embroidery picked out in metallic threads at chest, sleeves and hem, but it was simply laced over a chemise of the finest linen and—thank heaven—no corset. It left her feeling soft and free and the fierce love she felt for all her children coursed through her anew when Charles's tiny body moulded into her own, his little fingers entwining in hers. The whimpering was quietening, she noticed with satisfaction.

'You're not scared of me, are you, sweet boy?' Charles gurgled and Catherine laughed softly. 'Not scared at all! Well, Monsieur Charles, here's lesson number one on being a royal—especially a _French_ royal. Fear is better than love. Love fades; it is a delusion and a snare, and leaves you weak when you most need to be strong, to survive—I've learned that if nothing else. But worry not; a mother's love isn't like that, _mon chou_. I shall love you until I die. You and your brother and sisters are the whole meaning of life to me—'

'Poor Henry,' a familiar and hated voice said behind her and she turned, her shoulders squaring and the softness she kept for her children dropping from her like a discarded cloak.

'Diane.' A pause. 'Bash isn't here.'

The older woman gave a condescendingly sweet smile. 'I know. He's out with the other children.' A beat. 'Where's Madeleine?'

Catherine shifted. 'I dismissed her to get some rest; the poor girl was asleep when I arrived.'

'How kind you are!' Diane exclaimed and Catherine's eyes narrowed as she studied her enemy. 'I did not know you to be so concerned with _servants_!'

'Madeleine _is_ my servant, _Madame la Duchesse_. Just as this is my nursery and these are my children, no matter what Henry allows you to believe.'

Diane came closer, bringing with her a cloud of overly-sweet scent. Catherine's nostrils twitched but she stayed where she was, despite every instinct crying at her to move away.

'Why, Catherine. Can it be that Henry's meek little wife has a backbone after all?'

The Queen smiled slowly and responded in a tone as mocking as Diane's: 'And can it be that perhaps you have been mistaken in me all these years?'

Carefully, she went to lay her baby down. He was somewhat flushed but she stamped down on the flare of alarm. Diane would love to see her worry about her sons' frailty ... would love to take to opportunity—again—to emphasise young Bash's robust strength by contrast. Even Francis's improved health seemed nothing more than a mirage next to that of Bash or the Queen of Scots.

She turned, her eyebrows going up. 'Are you still here?'

Diane gave a smile that would be considered a smirk from anyone else. 'Of course. I am, after all, in charge of the nurseries. By the _King's_ command, _Your Majesty_.' The honorific was an insult—an insult that Catherine chose to ignore as she'd ignored so many.

Her time would come. Nostradamus had foreseen it. And when it did ... All these petty slights would be nothing and less than nothing. She could bide her time and survive as she'd always survived, by seeing and saying nothing. _Video et taceo ..._

But Diane was talking, her soft voice dripping a poison as potent as those Catherine learned to mix in Nostradamus's lab.

'How would Henry feel, do you think, if he learned that you love your children above him? That you perhaps look to the day when he is no longer with us?' Catherine fought to remain impassive; sometimes it seemed to her that Diane could read her mind. 'That is treason, my dear, as I'm sure you know. You have done your duty; we have the heir and spare and two girls for the marriage market.' Once again, she moved closer, close enough that Catherine could see the fine lines on the older woman's implausibly smooth skin. 'You are ... _dispensable_ , my dear little Catherine. I advise you not to forget it!'

She swept of in a flurry of fragrance and satin and the Queen dropped into the hard chair by the cradle. With only sleeping Charles near there was no need to wear a mask and she brought trembling hands to her lips. Diane was right, damn her, she'd (finally) done the duty she'd been brought to France to do. The name of the Medici might mean something in Rome or her native Florence but here in France ... she knew too well that there were many to see her as little more than a merchant's daughter. She was no Katharine of Aragon, she had no powerful relatives at her beck and call. If Henry decided to discard her there was none to stop him and she'd be left with nothing but her own wits.

And a _very_ large sum of money.

Some of the tension through her body started to dissipate. It wasn't as if this was a new threat, after all. It had hung over her head for the first ten years of her marriage. She'd been a fool to think that motherhood would save her; perhaps it would, some day, but not for a long time to come.

 _I did not know you to be so concerned with servants_ , indeed. Charles made a little sound and Catherine hummed in soothing response, pleased when he settled anew. Diane was a clever woman but she lacked cunning ... a trait that Catherine knew herself to possess by the bucketload. That was a threat, no mistaking it, and she had to be prepared. She had to make the people—or some of them, at least—love her so well that they would provide refuge should those threats ever become reality. She might lack Diane's charm or beauty or grace but her nearly endless revenues were more than enough to buy loyalty and that was all she needed.

Her eyes fell on the sleeping babe.

That, and the love of her children. She'd resigned herself to being nothing more than Henry's brood mare, the years seemed to do nothing more than deepen the rift between them. Today he was indifferent, perhaps tomorrow—or next month or next year—he'd come to hate her.

She sighed.

Her short respite from childbearing would soon be over and she dreaded it. The tender couplings of her first years with Henry were long gone; now they were little more than a duty, and frequently a physically gruelling one at that. Henry was a big man and she was comparative small, he had, as he was fond of boasting, the stamina of a lion. All too often she was left bruised and sore by their encounters and only the grim necessity to conceive more children, more _sons_ , kept the nightmare of her past at bay.

And just now she longed for peace; she was still wounded by little Louis's death, and there'd been such a small gap between his birth and Charles's conception that her body cried out for rest. Rest that she would not in all probability receive. Her doctors had already begun making noises to herself and Henry to the effect that her childbearing years could come to an end sooner rather than later and there _must_ be more sons for France.

Her hands fell back into her lap as she accepted her fate.

If she failed to bear more sons nothing else mattered; when Henry died the Bourbons would rule and she would be thrown out, she knew that too well. The Bourbons had looked down their aristocratic noses at her from the day of her very arrival, and the years in between had done nothing to blunt their contempt. For her own sake and that of her girls there must be more boys, there _must_ be ...

* * *

'Mama! Mama!'

Catherine jolted out of her unhappy as her daughters stumbled into the nursery—and such a sight they were! Her careful Elisabeth looked as if she'd fallen face first into a mud-pool and small Claude appeared to have had a battle with a bramble bush and lost—badly, if the twigs still entwined in the copper curls and the tear streaks on her dirty face were any indication.

The Queen was beside them in a flash.

' _Girls!_ What's happened?' She put a hand on Elisabeth's cheek while reaching for a twig in Claude's hair. The little girl yelled and Catherine drew a steadying breath as Elisabeth catapulted into her, sobbing. That was disturbing in itself; for all her quietness, Elisabeth rarely cried.

'Shh. Come now, it's all right,' she soothed, standing and drawing both girls towards her chair. 'Princesses don't cry, do they? Even when they fall into bushes!' She brushed Claude's nose with a fingertip and her younger daughter's howls quietened. When Catherine lifted her she snuggled close, chubby fingers latching onto the front laces of the Queen's gown.

But Elisabeth remained unconsoled, refusing to settle at the Queen's feet.

'You don't understand,' she insisted, pulling a resisting Claude away from their mother. 'Mama, come, _please_. To Papa, we have to tell him—'

Catherine shook her head in exasperation.

'Tell him what? Elisabeth, he's in a meeting with the Scottish ambassador—'

Elisabeth wrung her hands. 'That's _worse_! What're we going to do?' Her dark eyes looked even darker in her small white face. 'Mama, they'll go to war with us. They'll make us prisoners like the wicked King of Spain did to Papa—'

'Elisabeth. Elisabeth!' Catherine gave her older daughter a slight shake. 'Listen to me. Calm down and tell me what has happened. _No-one_ is going to lock you up, you have my word.'

'It's Francis'n'Mary,' Claude piped up. 'Someone's took them.'

'What?' Catherine managed a short laugh. 'Don't be absurd.'

'They _did_ ,' Elisabeth echoed, returning to her usual serene self now that the Queen knew the worst. 'We were playing hide'n'seek up in the tower. It was Mary's idea 'cos it's out of everyone's way and we didn't want to get shouted at—'

'An' Mary doesn't like the ambassador,' Claude supplemented.

Elisabeth nodded. 'That too. It was Claude's idea to hide in the passages—'

'Cos there's holes in the wall,' Claude explained with a flash of her bewitching grin. ''Lisabeth said it was cheating but I wanted to _win_.' She lifted her pointed chin.

'And what did you see?' Catherine asked calmly, leaving the question of cheating aside.

'Two men. They—they ... one of them grabbed Francis. He tried to yell but the other ... the other had a knife to Mary's throat!' Elisabeth's voice wobbled. 'He said—he said something we didn't understand, but Mary did. She told Francis to be quiet and she was _crying_ , Mother! And they took them away ...'

'We got Bash an' the Marys an' we tried to go after them,' Claude said. 'We ran an' _ran_ ever so fast through the woods until 'Lisabeth fell over and I fell in that nasty old thornbush—'

'She yelled so much Bash sent us back,' Elisabeth added. 'He was scared we'd be heard. He's taken the Marys and they're still looking. For clues. Bash thinks the bad men took went through the woods to get to the road without the guards seeing—'

The little catch as she finished jerked Catherine out of her horrified state and into action. After calling for Madeleine to attend Charles she took the girls' hands in hers and hustled them through the corridors as fast as she could, snapping an order to her page to fetch the King to her rooms. He'd be in a temper but Elisabeth was right, there was no point in antagonising the Scottish ambassador by informing him that they'd managed to lose his Queen.

 _And Francis,_ an inner voice reminded her and she forced it aside, telling herself that surely _Mary_ was the target here and not her son.

'I hope there's a damned good reason for this,' Henry said when he stalked in, slamming the doors behind him with small regard for the little girls that clung to their mother's skirts. 'We were right in the middle—'

'Francis and Mary are gone,' she interrupted. 'The ... the English, I assume. Elisabeth and Claude saw.'

Henry stared at her. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

'I'm not being ridiculous.' Catherine's voice was icy but she loathed it when he spoke to her like that, his tone dripping contempt. She disengaged herself from her daughters and moved towards him, ignoring the flicker in his eyes. 'Henry, please. Look at our girls. _Look_ at them. They're distraught and in rags, do you think they'd be like that for some _game_?' Despite herself, her eyes filled and her husband's stony expression softened.

He beckoned the girls towards him with a finger and demanded they tell him what they knew while Catherine allowed herself to drop onto her chaise, her knees like jelly. They'd always known there was a risk in taking Mary, but they'd believed that she was safe with them. After Spain, France was the dominant power in Europe. Even England would not dare—

Only it seemed she would.

The Queen bit her lip hard to suppress the tide of hysterical laughter that wanted to come ... laughter borne of sheer terror ... as Elisabeth and Claude recounted their story once more. Then Henry was rising to his feet and shouting for the guards, his jaw hard and his eyes glittering. He shoved the girls towards the door.

'Nursery, now,' he ordered in a tone that not even Claude dared dispute. 'Get yourselves tidied up, you look like ragamuffins.' They did not need to be told twice and he went to follow.

Catherine found herself on her feet. 'I'm coming too.'

He wheeled to face her. 'I need you here.'

'My son needs me,' she hissed, moving towards him so that only a few centimetres separated them. ' _Mary_ needs me. You have councillors for France—'

'Catherine—' He gripped her upper arms so tightly that later she would find bruises. Furious, she freed herself by the simple expedient of stamping down hard on his feet, wielding her sharp heels as a weapon. He swore and released her at once.

'Never, _ever_ ask me to put France above the safety of my children again,' she spat. 'Because France will _lose_.' With that, she turned to grab a cloak and swept past him, ignoring him as he babbled about danger and the need to ride fast and hard.

She was capable of outriding him any day and he knew it, she thought scornfully as her groom tossed into her saddle and she hooked a leg over the pommel and settled the other foot into its stirrup.

Her mare shifted beneath her, already responding to her touch on the reins, and Catherine turned her head to look at her husband. He too was mounted—on his favourite white stallion—and bawling orders. Guardsmen were running hither and yon like chickens trying to escape the pot and Catherine's hands tightened, causing her mare to toss her head with an impatient whinny.

'Henry!'

Her tone was peremptory and he paused mid-order to scowl.

'I'm going ahead, into the woods. Bash and the girls are there still. They might know more—' She kicked her mare on without waiting to hear what he thought of that, the need to find her missing son and future daughter-in-law overwhelming all else.

 _Please be safe_ , she prayed as the mare's pace lengthened into a canter. _Please be well and whole_... and all the time a conviction was forming within her that her original instinct of nearly three years ago was right. Mary was dangerous because she was in danger and thus she posed a threat to Catherine's beloved son.

When the children were found—Catherine refused to even countenance an 'if'—alternative arrangements would have to be made. For Francis's sake, Mary had to go ... she had to go _soon_.

* * *

 _I've really enjoyed writing this bit and filling in a few gaps, particularly the renaming of the Queen's Maries—an especially insulting piece of history-changing, even for_ Reign _. I hope you've enjoyed it too!_


	5. Still October 1551

_Thanks a million to the people who reviewed! It's given me the kick I needed to get on with this, despite drama and distractions at this end (I was in A &E/ER before Christmas with a kidney stone and it's ongoing, ick). Hope this is worth the wait!_

NB 2: _The above was written weeks ago. Life got in the way... so what follows better_ had _be worth the wait, I suppose._

 **Reviews**

medievalstranger: _Thank you! Sorry for making you wait for so long._

lizz204: _Ditto. The next update will be quicker... I promise!_

sylvia629 _: Aw, thanks. I can never stray too far from the history (or canon) so still trying to work out whether to make this totally AU or not._

BlueSkiesAndInk: _Oh thank you! I don't think 'just because it's fanfic' is a good enough reason to not to write as well as I possibly can—so I make the effort with everything. FFN is still publication after a fashion, no?_

CallMeCordelia1: _I still smile every time I see you username! And yes, since Reign didn't especially delve into their childhood I preferred to make things more accurate. One part of the first episode that never fails to annoy me is that idiotic conversation between Little Frary over 'but Francis is a girl's name!'. Er no, actually. 'Frances' is a girl's name; 'Francis' is a boy's name and that's even before you go into the fact that it's translated from 'Francois' which is definitely a boy's name! /end rant_

* * *

 **Blood Wood, 1551**

* * *

Catherine urged her mare further into the Blood Wood, her hands turning clammy on the reins. She'd just encountered Bash and the Maries; they'd all looked white and shocked but at least Bash was able to tell her that there was no sign of Queen Mary or Francis within the haunted groves of the wood itself. That was more of a relief than Catherine quite liked to admit but it did make speed imperative. Once the kidnappers were on the King's road with their royal charges they could forge ahead. If, as Catherine suspected, they were in the pay of the English they'd have money enough for bribes. Money enough to hide their trail to the coast ... and once the children reached Calais they were as good as dead.

 _At least I'm not entirely undefended_ , she thought grimly as she wedged her fingers deep into the padded part of her pommel and withdrew the wickedly sharp item she found there. _If I get there before Henry ... If the children are still well_ —

Her mare was moving with the swift surefootedness for which her breed was renowned, and the Queen was glad of it. That stallion of Henry's, for example, it was a lordly brute of a creature but stupid and clumsy. Her Duchessina was intelligent and responsive, needing little more than a word from her mistress to change pace ... and as Catherine's quick ears caught the sound of childish screaming, she was glad of it. She brought the mare to a halt and dismounted; it was not easy from a sidesaddle but she'd no choice. There was still no sign of Henry and she hoped he hadn't gone in a different direction entirely.

Her grasp tightened over the leather-sheathed weapon she held in one hand. It was tiny—so tiny that it was virtually invisible in her clenched fist—but it was long enough and sharp enough to do the job and it heartened her as she moved cautiously towards the sound of the screaming, leaving her heavy cloak near the mare. It would only drag on the fallen leaves beneath her feet and hamper her progress.

The screaming was getting louder by the moment and Catherine's mouth went dry—and her heart threatened to stop altogether when the shrillness of it was halted abruptly, only to be succeeded by the dreaded sound of mocking male laughter.

She had to pause to get her trembling limbs under control, memories surging forth like flood waters suddenly undammed. _What if_ —

At at once the screaming resolved into words.

'Leave her alone!' That was Francis. 'If you're gonna hurt someone, hurt me!'

 _Oh no you don't_ , Catherine thought, her son's voice jerking out of her quagmire of memories. She stumbled on. _If you've hurt a hair on my son's head_ ...

And then she could see them! She was half-hidden by a fortunate bush, and in the clearing before her there were two men, clad in leather riding gear. There was no sign of their horses and some of the sick fear inside eased; if the men weren't mounted—or their mounts were not immediately nearby—perhaps there was some hope she could get herself and the children out of this alive. It did beg the question as to why they'd stopped, though.

Francis and Mary were under a tree. One of the men was trying to pull Mary away and the Queen of Scots was resisting, fighting them every step of the way while Francis tried to maintain his hold on his fiancee's hand—until he was literally torn away from her by the other man, silenced by a knife at his throat.

Catherine's hand flew to her mouth, suppressing the instinctive protest that must not be allowed to escape.

Meanwhile, Mary had turned instantly and uncharacteristically meek. She wept and begged, speaking in a tongue that Catherine only belatedly recognised as her native Scots. She could not understand it but clearly the men did; one laughed harshly and spat into Mary's face.

Long ago, Catherine's uncle had insisted she learn some English. Now she was glad of it.

'D'you think we care for a frog prince, eh? D'yeh? We've come for _you_ , me lass, and another squeak out of yer and Froggy here'll be dead. Understand?'

Every ounce of arrogance had drained from Mary. She was no longer the indulged 'Reinette' of the French court, she was a terrified child cowering from evil men, the spark that Catherine realised (too late?) that she loved entirely extinguished. And Francis ... Catherine's golden child was still held captive, not daring to even twitch, his blue eyes the only spot of colour in his starkly white small face. The knife remained at his throat; it glinted in the light filtered by the naked branches above.

The men were talking and Catherine saw her chance. Moving stealthily she circled the clearing, using the bushes for shelter. Once she stepped on something that crunched underfoot and the men quietened, their eyes turning wary while Catherine held her breath and waited, hoping she hadn't betrayed herself.

She'd nearly reached her objective when all hell broke loose, for Mary suddenly turned from a meek little captive into a something wild that bit and scratched and kicked, acting so swiftly that her captor was taken by surprise and released her. Francis was less fortunate; he'd tried to kick out as well but his captor simply tightened his grip and the little knife flashed again as it returned to its spot at the Dauphin's throat—and Catherine acted, whipping out her knife and stabbing it deep into the patch of unprotected skin she could see on the back of the man's neck. He crumpled and Francis jerked free.

The scene turned into a tableau, the surviving captor and captives equally stunned—and Catherine took full advantage of it, stepping out of the shadows and into the clearing. Her knife was still clenched in her hand and while she held it firmly against herself, attempting to disguise it with her skirts, there was nothing she could do about the blood sprayed across sleeve and bodice.

The Englishman's jaw hardened and Catherine realised they were almost out of time.

'Francis!' she snapped and her son, thank the saints, understood. He grabbed Mary's arm and ran awkwardly, trying to look back towards his mother as he went.

The Queen shifted as the Englishman's attention returned to her.

'You _bitch_.'

'You _coward_ ,' Catherine spat. 'Playing politics with the lives of _children_.'

'They're not children, they're devil spawn, like all who'd harm England—'

'You're in France, monsieur. _You're_ the devil spawn here.' Belatedly she realised they were speaking French. She was glad of it; her English certainly wasn't equal to this and the longer she could keep him talking the better the children's chances. As Diane had reminded her earlier, she was dispensable.

He approached, a wolfish smile growing. She shivered inwardly as she caught sight of his blackened teeth.

'Why do you care, eh, madame? A servant at the castle, are you? A nurse, perhaps?'

'Or a loyal Frenchwoman?'

He barked a laugh. His breath was foul on her face and her breath hitched.

'You're no froggy, lady, I've spent enough time here to know that.' He circled her and she schooled herself to stillness.

No matter what he did, she could endure it. She'd endured worse. At least this time she was a woman grown and he was only one man. Only _one_ man. And if the worse happened, better that it should be to her rather than Mary. She was already damaged goods and Mary ... Not for worlds would Catherine have permitted the shattering of the child's innocence. Time and the realities of power would do that soon enough.

Besides, there was still the blade in her hand ...

When he grabbed her she was ready, but so was he; his reflexes were whip sharp and almost at once the hand with the knife was being twisted cruelly behind her back and black spots floated across her vision as her body protested. He forced it further and pain drove everything else from her mind as she fought to stay conscious ... and her weakness allowed him to shake the tiny blade into the decaying leaves below.

She gasped and he laughed, his breath tickling her ear and causing the little hairs at the back of her neck and along her spine to rise.

'Not so stubborn now, are yeh?'

Her free hand was brought behind her back and Catherine tried to kick out, but her captor's grip was firm and sure. Something coarse wrapped tightly around her wrists and any moisture left in her mouth evaporated completely. With her hands bound she was effectively powerless and despite her resolutions she was quaking inwardly at the thought of what might be coming. There was nothing she could do to free herself and for the first time since early childhood she found herself making a sincere prayer ... a prayer for rescue.

 _Hurry, Henry._ Please _hurry._

'Come on, bitch.' She was jerked backwards without warning, and only an ungraceful stagger kept her on her feet.

'What are you—'

'You cost me them brats. D'yeh think I'd just let you go?'

Another jolt; her heel caught on an unseen stone and she landed hard on her back, straining already strained shoulder muscles even further and prompting an involuntary scream that she smothered almost at once. The Englishman did not not pause; he continued to tug viciously on his rope and Catherine screamed again, the screams turning into sobs as waves of white hot agony rippled down her back and arms. If only she could stand but like this she was helpless; with the constant pull backwards and without the use of her hands she was unable even to roll.

After years of struggling to survive, struggling for power, for control ... Catherine gave up. Stopped resisting. She allowed herself to go entirely limp, forcing her captor to put all his energy into dragging her. It was still hell but almost bearable in comparison to the all-encompassing pain.

When the blackness hovering at the edges of her vision blossomed she welcomed it. Just now, any oblivion would be preferable to what she was sure lay ahead—even if that oblivion was death itself.

* * *

'Francis! Mary!' Henry paused to listen for an answering call; there was nothing but the indignant squawks of disturbed crows. He swallowed. 'Catherine!'

Still nothing.

'Maybe we've come the wrong way,' Bash piped up. He was balanced precariously behind his father, his thin arms wrapped around Henry's lean waist.

The King gave an inarticulate growl. 'We came this way because of what _you_ said.'

A long pause before a softly regretful, 'I know.'

Henry sighed, a headache threatening behind his eyes. 'Just think. Think _carefully_. I met you and the girls outside the woods. You saw Catherine, didn't you? Did you tell _her_ where to go?'

'To the road,' Bash insisted. 'She came this way. I'm sure she did.'

'Well, where the bloody hell is she? I know people are starting to mutter about her so-called evil powers but even my wife cannot fly. She's got to be here somewhere.'

'Keep yelling,' Bash said, before doing so himself. 'They must be here. They must be.'

He shouted again, his shrill treble making Henry wince as he strained his ears to hear ... whatever might be heard over the shrieks of his eldest son. It wasn't easy; his stallion was puffing and blowing and fear was tight around his chest, like an ill-fitting suit of armour.

 _What if they've all been taken?_

 _What if Catherine found them and they killed her?_

 _What if Francis and Mary are on their way now to some English prison ... or death?_

He shuddered. If the children were imprisoned their royal blood would avail them nothing. Henry's memories of his Spanish incarceration told him that, and what he recalled of English history wasn't exactly comforting. There were those stories about the murder of the imprisoned boy-king Edward V and his brother, Richard, Duke of York. Would Edward VI hold Francis to ransom or simply kill him? Henry VIII had lusted after the French crown as much as any of his predecessors, perhaps Edward's advisors would see Francis's death as a way of pushing the old claim once again. And with Mary in their hands they'd hold Scotland...

 _It's not gonna happen_ , he told himself. Behind him, Bash was still yelling, sounding hoarser by the minute. Henry was just about to tell him to be quiet and let him do the calling when his stallion's ears unexpectedly swivelled from flat to alert.

'Shh!' Henry squeezed one of Bash's hands. 'There's something ahead.'

They rode in silence, listening.

And this time, they heard it. A whinny.

'Duchessina. Hold on, Bash!' Henry dug his heels hard into his stallion's side and the horse leaped willingly into action, his neck going long as his pace lengthened into an eager canter. There was no need to guide him; Rex was as keen to get to Catherine's mare as he was and Henry used a hand to steady Bash, whose horsemanship was excellent for his age but not proof against this scenario.

It seemed forever but was only seconds before Rex pulled up, snickering a welcome to Duchessina. The mare tossed her head, large brown eyes fixed on them, but she remained motionless—probably because of the frightened children crouching beneath.

Henry only waited for Bash to slide off before dismounting himself, his tummy crawling as he got a proper look at his missing son and future daughter-in-law. For once it seemed that Francis was the stronger; his arms were wrapped tight around Mary, who clung to him as if afraid she'd be ripped away—

'What happened?' Bash demanded before his father could get a word in edgewise.

'We ...' Francis licked his lips. 'We got caught. Two men, they grabbed us while we were playing. They put a bag over our heads and slapped us so that we'd—we'd be quiet.' His voice was quiet, as though he was putting every ounce of energy into remaining calm and Henry found himself remembering the day his heir had got stranded up a tree. Only the boy's capacity for steadiness had saved his life on that occasion; panic would have doomed him to certain death, and perhaps his rescuers too. Shame welled through the King once again. Would he never learn to cherish his eldest legitimate son simply because he was Catherine's child instead of Diane's?

 _Francis deserves better,_ he admitted. _And so does Catherine._

'Where's Catherine?' Bash demanded, taking the words from Henry's mouth.

Mary's hazel eyes burned black. 'She ... she saved us. She ... she told us to run.' The girl was twisting the linen of her sleeves, displaying a nervousness Henry had never seen in her before. 'After she killed one of the Englishmen.'

'But now the other one's got her,' Francis added. 'Father, please ... you have to find her!'

Henry's blood turned cold and sluggish in his veins. He wasn't surprised his wife had killed one of the Englishmen. He knew better than any how swift and sneaky and merciless she could be, especially where her beloved children were concerned. Only ... Catherine worked best in the shadows and despatching one of the captors and sending the children away would have left her at the other's mercy. And for all her strength she was not a large woman. She could be overpowered and then— His mouth went dry.

It was years since he could honestly say that he loved his wife. Some days he'd go so far as to say he hated her. But for all that she _was_ his wife, an integral part of his life. He could no more imagine being without her than he could imagine losing Diane.

'Bash,' he barked. 'Dismount,' he added, doing so himself. He tied the stallion to the tree and gestured towards Duchessina. 'Can you ride her?'

'I can,' Francis put in. 'So can Mary.' _Of course_. Catherine would not permit _his_ son to ride her precious mare.

'Bring her back.' Henry's throat was tight. 'You too, Bash.'

'But what if—'

Henry ground his teeth and the boy got the message. He yanked Catherine's side-saddle off and boosted the other two onto the mare's smooth back before vaulting up behind Mary and clinging to her as she clung to Francis. Duchessina was not tall but she was strong—more than strong enough to take the three children. She was also eager to go, her head tossing as she pulled on the reins.

The King gestured and Francis kicked. The mare snorted and leapt forward; there was moments of noise as she crashed through the woods on the shortest route back to the castle but all too soon Henry was alone. Alone with his own thoughts and fears; even Rex seemed to sense them, he shifted, his tail whipping against the tree bark with a crack that made Henry jump.

He gave a nervous half-laugh and patted the stallion's neck—as much to to reassure himself as his horse. He couldn't postpone the moment of reckoning any further; he might already have waited too long.

He had to find his wife. If she'd never needed him before she assuredly did now. The thought sent a prickle of fear down Henry's spine.

If he found her and he found her alive ... would she still be the Catherine he knew?

* * *

 _TBC_

 _Hopefully much quicker next time! I do apologise—again!_


	6. Blood Forest, 1551

_OMG, I can't believe how long it's been since I updated this! Especially as this has been sitting in a 90% state of completion on my HDD for what feels like months. Many thanks to **CallMeCordelia** for the gentle reminder that I hadn't actually posted it!_

* * *

 **Blood Forest, 1551**

* * *

Leaving Rex where he was, Henry began to make his cautious way through the forest in the direct Bash had indicated. Rex had all the subtlety of a rampaging lion and Henry knew his best chance was to creep up on his wife and her captor. At least he knew every inch of these woods; as a small child he'd played in them (the pagans left children alone, as a rule) and when he came to manhood Diane was there, ready to introduce him to the people she still considered hers. That introduction secured Henry's safety in the midst of the Blood Wood for life ... but _only_ his. His Medici wife and half-Medici children were not included in the dispensation.

And one of the things they'd taught him was how to move through the woods on soundless feet, magically seeming to avoid the crunches and rustlings of fallen twigs and leaves and fragile animal bones that might give him away. It was no accident that his hunts were invariably successful.

He strained to hear, hardly daring to breath lest he miss a sound. Catherine would not go with the Englishman quietly, he knew that much, and even if she was unconscious she was still a grown woman and the ground was anything but even. It'd be hard to carry her and even harder to drag her for any distance.

Unless she'd been killed, of course. Dead, she could be abandoned where she fell whilst her killer made a swift getaway.

Henry wiped his hands down his leather riding doublet and swallowed hard, his breath coming in short gasps as panic set in. The need for silence strangled his instinctive desire to shout.

Which brought another unpleasant thought.

What if his earlier yells for Catherine and the children were overheard? What if it was _his_ voice that had sealed his wife's fate? His heart grew heavy in his chest; if that were so he'd never forgive himself ... and neither would Francis.

 _I'll find her,_ he swore inwardly as he continued to pick through the woods. _And if she's been harmed, I'll tear France and England apart to find the bastard who did it._

* * *

Catherine was distinctly displeased to find consciousness returning, and with it a wave of agony. Her stomach rebelled and she resisted being pulled with all her strength while she twisted—painfully—in an attempt to empty it.

'Done?' her captor snapped, surprising her, and she gave him her most queenly glare.

'Sorry to inconvenience you.' Her throat was desert-dry and the words rasped.

Her reward was a swift backhand across the face and she recoiled into the leaves, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Her captor was panting hard, his eyes glittering.

'That'll teach yer.'

She tried to draw a breath that didn't catch. 'Please. Untie my hands, you don't have to drag me like—like a slaughtered boar. I won't try to run away, I swear.' _Because as long as you have me you won't find my children ... and perhaps Henry knows what's happened and he'll come, if only I can find the strength to keep going._

She tried to ignore the little voice that sounded like Diane. The one that whispered, _Or perhaps he'll be glad to be rid of you at last_

The sound of that imagined voice stiffened her spine, sending blood singing in a furiously energising rush through her veins. She would not give in meekly, she would not give that witch the satisfaction. Diane de Poitiers would never wear her crown ... even if Catherine had to kill the woman herself.

 _There has to be a way,_ she thought, fighting for time as she pretended to retch once more, her senses becoming increasingly alert. _He's stopped to allow this, perhaps ..._

She allowed herself to be pulled unresistingly when the vicious tug on the rope began again, the desire for survival triumphing over pain. In this moment that instinct was all she had; stripped to her essentials and lacking power, strength, or even simple physical liberty. She had no weapons except her tongue, and she knew full well that her captor would be impervious to anything she might say ... and indeed, any attempt at goading him might only endanger her further.

Which left her with nothing but her native cunning. Could she pretend to be frail and weak, and weep and beg and plead?

It wouldn't work, she decided. She'd screamed more than once and been dragged on regardless.

But he _had_ stopped to allow her to be sick, and she hadn't missed how green he'd looked. An abductor who was squeamish? It seemed unlikely and yet ... She remembered the odd colour Henry turned when Francis was born. Men did not usually attend a birth but royal births were the exception. After such a long period of infertility it seemed that every male dignitary in the kingdom had crowded into the delivery room, including the child's father and grandfather.

Her plan _could_ work ... if she was a good enough actress to pull it off—and if he had sufficient compassion to even care.

* * *

'Stop, I beg of you!'

Henry froze, recognising his wife's voice coming from beyond the thickets ahead. She sounded agonised and his heart twisted within him.

'Please ...' Catherine sounded fainter that time. Then he heard her groan, a deep meaty groan that tickled the back of his memory.

'Shut up!' an unfamiliar voice growled and Henry softly withdrew his sword, rage starting to build. 'An' stop draggin' us, not if yer wanna live—'

'It—it doesn't m—matter.' Catherine sounded ... broken, now. 'Kill me if you like, you've already killed my child...' She groaned again and Henry stopped, his brow furrowing in confusion. There was no way in hell she was pregnant, he hadn't touched her in months—not since she'd announced she was pregnant with Charles.

'Lyin' bitch,' the Englishman snarled and there was a crack of flesh hitting flesh.

Catherine made a sound that was half-sob, half moan. 'Please. I'm bleeding, I can feel it ... Please, let me go...' Her voice trailed off. She sounded fragile and breathy, and Henry awaited her captor's next words, his pulse thrumming so loudly in his ears he nearly missed it.

'You're fakin' it.' The fellow's uncertainty was audible.

A breathy gasp that resembled a dying laugh.

'You ... went after ... _royal_ children, sir. A-and they _escaped_. When the King finds out there'll ... there'll be a price on your h-head. I'll just slow you down—'

'So I'll kill yer now!'

'There's ... there's no need.' Henry gulped and told himself to wait. Catherine sounded as if she was fading fast but the fact that he knew—he _knew_ —she'd lied about being pregnant gave him hope that her raggedness was also a lie. 'You ... you don't even h-have to untie me. Go ... Save yourself ...' Her voice tapered off and the King squinted through the thickets, desperately trying to see what was going on.

He waited for what seemed like an eternity before he heard the unmistakable sounds of an individual untrained in woodcraft crashing through the groves and a cruel smile twisted his lips. From the sound of it the fellow was going in entirely the wrong direction; he was going deeper into the darkest, most secret parts of the Blood Wood instead of heading for the safety of road for Calais. It was completely unnecessary to pursue him further. The pagans would get him and give him a death crueller than anything Henry could devise.

* * *

A touch on her cheek returned Catherine to something resembling consciousness, and all hope died.

She'd thought that the Englishman had fallen for her ruse; she was sure the last thing she'd heard was him crashing through the branches to get away. But if he was back ... then this ordeal might indeed end with her death. She hadn't lied about the bleeding, only its cause, and her head had the fuzzy disconnected feeling she associated with the blood loss that had followed Louis's birth. She might die either way, but at least if she'd been abandoned she could drift relatively peacefully towards death rather than being driven there through potentially greater pain... and there'd been that sliver of hope that _perhaps_ Francis and Mary had caught up with Henry and _perhaps_ Henry cared enough to find her ...

The feather touch on her cheek was back again and she moaned, trying to move away from it and return to the blissful cocooning dark. Why could not he let her go? She was half-dead already; all he had to do was run and her injuries and the things that lurked in the depths of the forest would get to her sooner rather than later.

'Catherine,' a voice whispered and she couldn't believe it. She was hallucinating, she must be. 'Catherine, please wake up.'

She twitched involuntarily when a feather-touch moved down the line of her arms towards her hands. A quick, sharp jerk that sent a wave of white-sharp heat-and-pain through her and then ... and then her hands were free.

'Come _on_ ,' that voice insisted. 'Open your eyes and look at me, wife.' Oddly, it was the impatient, irritated tone that reassured her, telling her that what she heard and felt was real—real and so blessedly, comfortingly familiar. Her breath caught in her throat and she dared to lift her lids a chink and allow the possibility of life back in.

Henry hovered above her, haloed by light and greenery, his brows a furious dark line across his forehead. The line softened.

'Ah,' he said. He cleared his throat. 'They didn't kill you after all.'

She ignored that. 'The ... the children?'

'Safe.' Why did he sound so gruff? He never sounded like that, not with her. 'Thanks to you.'

A sob of relief escaped before she could prevent it.

'Let's get you home,' Henry was saying. He tugged gently at her arms and ... and it was too much. She heard something high and shrieking while white blossomed behind her eyes and she knew no more.

* * *

The eldritch wail that came from his wife raised the hairs on Henry's neck and prickled down his spine and he stopped to look at her properly. His jaw clenched when he saw that both shoulders were dislocated and no longer wondered that she'd lost consciousness ... He knew that particular pain too well. At least it was something he'd plenty of experience at fixing, he'd done it on the battlefield many times, but never in a million years had he imagined performing the manoeuvre on Catherine. Well, he'd better get on with it while she was out of it.

He worked quickly, clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth hurt, but experience told and it was not long before Catherine's shoulders were back where they should be. Her skin was turning a range of stomach-churning colours and he knew it'd probably still hurt like hell when she woke up ... but hopefully he'd alleviated a little of her pain. Perhaps she'd be able to help him help her and they'd get back to the castle sooner. It was turning dusky and Diane or no Diane, he'd never willingly choose to spend time in the Blood Wood after dark.

'Catherine?' He stroked her cheek, hoping to repeat his earlier success. 'Catherine, we need to move.'

It seemed forever before her eyelids fluttered and she looked up at him, her eyes looking bruised and vulnerable; a million miles from the formidable woman he'd come to know.

'How does it feel?' he asked awkwardly. 'Your shoulders. I fixed them—'

She made a small sound he thought was 'thanks' followed by an incomprehensible mumble. He leaned in closer.

'Pardon?' Her eyes were drifting shut again and even in the falling light he could see her colour was bad. Alarm rippled through him and he gave her a slight shake. 'Catherine, come on. Talk to me—' He ran his hands down her body, looking for other injuries. Her skirts were dark and in the poor light they could hide a multitude of hurts. Dampness on one side made him pause and he raised his fingers to his nose, his nostrils flaring at the unmistakable tang of blood.

Now there was definitely no time to lose. He shrugged out of his jacket, scooped her up and began to walk, allowing his feet and instincts to guide him in the growing gloom. He stumbled once or twice, almost dropping his burden, and fear settled low and hard in his belly when Catherine remained uncharacteristically limp and quiet in his arms. If she was conscious she'd have said _something_ , he was sure.

His other senses sharpened as sight was rendered increasingly useless. This part of the wood was densely forested, and naked and half-naked branches entwined above his head, cutting out the little available light as effectively as any canopy of green in summer. His own breath was erratically loud, his heart hammering in his chest, and he tried to hold it in an effort to hear his wife's—with limited success. And then there was the fact that she was still bleeding, he could feel the slippery viscosity of it through his lawn shift.

And surely by now he must be approaching the spot where he'd left Rex. He whistled softly, praying that the hours he'd spent training the stallion had borne fruit. A soft whicker reassured him and some of the stiffness left his muscles.

'Catherine.' He pressed his fingertips in the fleshy part of one arm, hoping— _needing_ —to rouse her. 'It's time to go home—Catherine?'

He felt her stir in his arms and relief rushed through him in a torrent, weakening his knees and causing him to stagger, his grasp tightening.

'Thank the saints. Can you hear me, wife?'

'Don't you dare drop me, Henry,' he heard her mutter and he strangled a laugh.

'I'm trying not to,' he assured her as they reached Rex's side. 'Catherine, I need your help. Can you stand?'

'H'mmm.'

He took that as acquiescence and lowered her to her feet. She swayed and he steadied her, already wondering if this was a good plan ... but they still had some distance to go through the woods and he couldn't carry her the whole way, _or_ mount Rex without some effort from her.

'We need to get back,' he said, a sense of urgency growing within him as she blinked blearily up at him. 'You're injured and—and the children will want to see you.'

She lifted her chin. 'How?' she rasped. 'Henry, I can't walk that far. You should leave me and —Where's Duchessina?'

'The children took her.' He paused. 'Francis and Mary seemed confident they could manage her.'

'They can, I made sure of it ... They must be back by now, won't they send help?'

'Who'll believe them?' he asked softly. 'It's a preposterous tale, my lady. The heirs of France abducted only to be rescued by their Queen, who's attacked in her own turn ... That was most rash of you, wife.'

'Not ... when it saved Francis.' Catherine was faltering again, he could feel it as she leaned against him. She'd never allow herself to do that if she'd a choice. 'You need your heir more than ... more than you need me. Wives are easily found.' There was no mistaking the bitterness there, or the resignation.

'I don't need another wife—'

'Not even Diane?' Even injury and blood loss could not remove the mocking tone from Catherine's voice, but for once it did not flay across Henry's nerves. That mockery meant his wife was still capable of fighting and they'd need every ounce of her fighting spirit if he was to get her back to the castle in one piece.

'Forget Diane,' he snapped. 'It's you I'm thinking of—'

'For a change—'

'Catherine, for _once_ will you shut up and let me help you? I'm gonna throw you up on Rex and it's gonna hurt. Can you work with me?'

'It seems I must if I'm not going to be torn apart by the savages that lurk here. After all, we both know _you_ are safe.'

'At least your ordeal hasn't hurt your tongue,' Henry observed sourly. 'Right. Step onto my hand and grab the pommel—'

'I _do_ know how to mount, Henry.'

'And brace yourself,' he continued, ignoring her. If he responded to every barb they'd never get back. 'One ... two ... three ... _hup_... Steady...!'

'I'm steady,' Catherine retorted—gasped, rather. His hand was on her leg and he could feel it trembling. 'Don't talk to me as if I'm one of your bitches.'

'I wasn't.' Henry forced a grin. 'I was talking to Rex. He's not used to this, are you, boy?' He patted the stallion's side and Catherine humphed.

'My turn now. Brace yourselves!' He mounted with a flying leap he'd learned years ago but rarely displayed off the battlefield. The children would be sure to spot it and he had horrid visions of Bash and Mary (and even Francis) attempting to copy it and harming themselves in the process. He could cope with an angry Catherine _or_ Diane but not both.

Catherine was stiff when he touched her, wrapping his arms around her waist to steady her as he touched Rex's sides with his heels.

'Good _Lord_ , Henry, where did you learn that?' Her voice had turned thready again and it worried him. If he could keep her talking ...

'That's the only good thing Spain did for me. During the good periods we were allowed out, allowed to ride, and there was this old _morisco_ stableman who supervised us. He taught us a few tricks including that one ... Francis never got the hang of it.' Even now, all these years later, Henry still felt a touch of smugness over that. He urged Rex on. 'Are you all right to go faster?'

There was a long pause before Catherine said, 'I think ... I think faster would be—' and she slumped back against him, overcome at last. He swore and dug his heels viciously into Rex's side and the stallion leapt forward with an indignant snort, but Henry kept his heels in. It was time and more than time to go home.

* * *

 **Amboise, November 1551**

* * *

Pain prodded Catherine awake and she rose to the surface slowly, her brow crunching as hurt after hurt came to the fore. Her arms, back and shoulders was one large dull ache; even trying to lift her hand from the coverlet made her head spin. The rest of her body was in slightly better case, apart from a large white-hot soreness down one side and another line of it down her thigh. Her head throbbed and when she attempted to open her eyes a moan of protest escaped; some fool had drawn back the drapes and the morning sunshine streamed mercilessly through the leaded panes.

'Mama? Mama!' She heard a pattering of feet and a childish voice—Elisabeth's?—call for Nostradamus. Henry must have been anxious indeed to summon the court physician.

'Your Majesty?' Nostradamus spoke gently, as always.

She kept her eyes closed. 'The ... the light.'

There was a dragging of fabric across the floor and the light dimmed. Catherine squinted, still unwilling to open her eyes completely.

'Madame?' Nostradamus, bless him, sounded worried.

'I can hear you,' she rasped, her eyes staying closed.

'How do you feel?'

She huffed a half-laugh. 'I've been better.'

'You have been ill,' the seer corrected. Catherine felt his fingers on her forehead, a cool feather-touch. ' _Very_ ill. We were ... we were worried we would lose you.'

She opened her eyes at last, more touched than she cared to admit by the tiny catch she could hear in her friend's voice. He hovered over her, his brow creased in worry.

Her own brow crunched in confusion. 'How—'

'You sustained many cuts and bruises, my lady, including a deep one down one leg. You were already feverish by the time the King returned you here and the delay on top of everything else ...' Nostradamus shook his shaggy head. 'It was not good.'

'Hmmm.' She allowed her eyelids to drop. 'Dare I ask where the King is now?' _With Diane, assuredly,_ she thought.

'He's in a meeting with the Scottish ambassador. I've sent Elisabeth to tell him—'

'You shouldn't have done that. Matters of state come first, always. Neville is a touchy fellow and this—this _fiasco_ —won't help. He hates being interrupted.'

'The King _ordered_ it, Madame,' Nostradamus said, so gently that her eyes popped open in shock. 'When you woke, he was to know.'

Catherine found herself blinking furiously, her usual iron self-control undermined by illness and pain.

Nostradamus surprised her by taking her hand in his. 'As I said, we were _all_ worried.' His dark eyes were understanding— too understanding. Catherine's throat tightened as discomfort crawled through her veins. She'd been feverish, he said. Did that mean she'd also been delirious? How much of her closely guarded inner self had she shared unwittingly—and with whom?

The thought of Nostradamus or the children hearing her hurts and humiliations was bad enough but if _Henry_ —or, God forbid, Diane—had heard ...

Her breath caught in a half-sob and she turned her head away, unwilling to look Nostradamus in the eye. He tried to call her but she ignored him, feigning sleep instead ... and she thought she'd succeeded until she heard the seer say, 'She's awake, Your Majesties'—and there was no point in continuing the pretence.

It was time to face her husband.

She was a survivor. She'd survived rape, humiliation, abduction, childbirth, loneliness ... She could survive this too. She schooled her expression to something she hoped passed for her usual calm facade and turned her head.

'Henry,' she greeted, relieved to hear that she sounded stronger than before. 'And Mary. What brings you here, my dear?'

'Madame.' Mary came to kneel by her bed. Catherine's own children would have been dwarfed but the Queen of Scots was already so tall that she could face the older woman with ease. 'I am so glad to see you—' Her voice caught and Catherine frowned as she took in her future daughter-in-law.

Mary had been crying, that was abundantly clear. She was a vain young woman who even at her tender age had mastered the art of crying prettily ... but her recent tears were not the decorative token sort. Her hazel eyes were ringed with red and her skin was paler than usual, but she held herself with an air that reminded even Catherine that she was Queen by right as well as name.

'Mary?' the Queen of France prompted. 'What is it, child?' Panic blossomed. Why was Mary here alone without Catherine's son at her side? 'Were you and Francis—'

'We're unhurt.' Mary sniffled and gave a watery smile. 'Thanks to you, you saved our lives.'

'Then why these tears?' Catherine shook her head, ignoring the resulting bolt of pain. 'How many times have I told you, a queen must—'

'I'm going away,' Mary blurted and Catherine's gaze darted to Henry behind her.

'Don't be absurd.' Catherine tried to be crisp. 'Your mother placed you in our care—'

'And it's not safe!' Mary interrupted. She leaned forward, her eyes very hard. All at once she looked older—much older—than she was. 'You and Francis were nearly _killed_ because of me. France has been good to me. I will not stay at court if my presence harms _any_ of you!'

Once again Catherine's eyes found her husband's. He shrugged.

'She's been like this since we got back. We've all talked. Myself, Francis, Neville ... I've asked Marie what she wants but we thought that you—'

'No,' Catherine said, her mind clearing suddenly. 'No, Mary's right. While she's here we're _all_ in danger, her included. But, Mary—' The girl raised her russet head. 'Mary, the reasons your mother placed you here are still good. You cannot go home, that much is sure. I know your grandmother would take you but that's the first place the English would look.'

Mary seemed to shrink, reminding the Queen that for all her self-possession she was still a child. 'Then where, Madame?' She sniffled and dashed a hand across her eyes.

Catherine smiled. 'There is a convent, many miles from here. It is in the depths of Massif Central. I know of it because … because I knew the Prioress when we were children together in Florence. She is a good woman—and more to the point, a sensible one. She will hide you for as long as we need.'

'Catherine—' Henry tried and she knew from the set of his jaw he was going to argue. She shook her head at him.

'My husband, if we're going to do this Mary must go right away. The closer she is, the greater the likelihood she will be discovered.' She caught and held the girl's gaze with her own. 'Understand, my child. I cannot promise when you can return. I cannot even promise that we will visit; any contact between us could endanger you. You will be quite alone—more alone, even, than when you first came to court. Are you absolutely _certain_ you wish to do this?'

The Queen of Scots rose to her feet. 'It is _necessary_ , Madame.' She rubbed her nose fiercely, momentarily turning into a child again. 'And if it is necessary I must endure it. That is what being a queen is about. _You_ taught me that.'

Henry clapped her shoulder. 'And you've learned your lessons well.' He cleared his throat before adding gruffly, 'We shall miss you, _Reinette_. Francis most of all.'

They saw Mary's throat constrict at the nickname. 'He-he will understand…' Her voice wobbled for a treacherous moment. 'I'll tell him. He loves me. When he knows it will keep us safe—' The hazel eyes overflowed and she turned and ran from the room, uncharacteristically tripping over the hem of her gown in the process.

When the doors closed behind her the King and Queen were silent.

'So you got your way in the end,' Henry commented, and Catherine flinched inside at the renewed hostility in his tone. 'You never liked her.'

'Believe what you will, my lord.' Her throat was tight; if Henry really believed she still disliked their future daughter-in-law he was blind and a fool besides, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd been mistaken in her. 'I would like to sleep now. If that's all—'

'Madame.' Henry gave the jerky, inelegant nod that passed as a courtly bow from him at her treacherous heart skipped a beat. His awkwardness reminded her of the boy she'd married so many years ago. Perhaps if she showed a little vulnerability now, found a way to make him believe that she grieved at the prospect of Mary's departure as much as he or Francis could—

But it was too late. Already he was leaving, the doors clicking shut behind him.

And Catherine de Medici wept alone as her life resumed its splendid and solitary path.

* * *

 _I'm going to leave this on WIP but to all intents and purposes it's complete for the moment. Reign hasn't returned to the UK properly; for some reason we haven't got anything past 3.11! In any case, this was always intended to go as far as Mary's departure and no further, but there's certainly room to expand some of the earlier bits, so we'll see where inspiration strikes! Thanks a million for your support and I'm sure I'll post more when we finally catch up..._


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